


Cold Hands

by Kiss_Me_Im_Pie



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1920s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hospitals, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Thomas centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23760148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiss_Me_Im_Pie/pseuds/Kiss_Me_Im_Pie
Summary: After twenty years of silence, Thomas is thrown back into his family's lives with many consequences.
Relationships: Anna Bates/John Bates, Daisy Mason/Andy Parker, Phyllis Baxter/Joseph Molesley, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 31
Kudos: 259





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will update this as and when I can, no real schedule though.

The servants’ hall had slowly filled over the course of the afternoon, occupants sitting down as the upstairs luncheon came to a close.

Daisy walked in, giving Andy a soft smile as she began to pour tea for each of the occupants. She glanced at the empty seat at the head of the table. “Is Mr Barrow not down yet?”

“His Lordship wanted to speak with him,” Mrs Hughes supplied, “Lord and Lady Hexam are both arriving tomorrow, along with their bairn, and His Lordship wanted to make sure they’ll all be comfortable.”

“Any news on how the mother and son are doing?” Andy asked.

Miss Baxter smiled. “Her Ladyship was very happy with the reports from Lord Hexam. All seems to be well.” She had experienced the conversations around Lady Sybil and her untimely passing. Even after eight years the family still grew scared at the prospect of birth. “Apparently Master Michael is the split image of his mother.”

“Lady Mary says that Miss Marigold isn’t too happy to have a brother rather than a sister but seems to love him all the same,” Anna piped in with a smile.

A bell rang on the wall, _Back Door_ , Andy quickly took another sip from his cup before dashing off to answer the call.

“If it’s anything like Master George though,” Anna continued, “then she won’t forgive the baby until he’s almost two.”

“Nanny Andrews must have had a time trying to explain it to him,” Mr Bates said with good nature, “that Miss Caroline couldn’t decide to a be a boy instead.”

“Does Johnny still get along with Master George?” Mrs Hughes asked.

Mr Bates face lit up at the mention of his son. “He said only yesterday that Master George is ‘the greatest friend ever’, so I’d say they get along very well indeed,”

“Mrs Hughes?” Andy’s voice arrived a second before he did. “There’s a Margret Jackson asking for Mr Branson.”

She frowned. “I don’t recall him mentioning any visitors.”

“She asked for him by name.”

She sighed and rose from her seat. “Very well, you bring her inside, I’ll go and ask Mr Branson if he knows her.” She departed the hall at the same time as the Andy, the later then returning not long after with a thin woman, about Lady Mary’s height. She didn’t partially look like Mr Branson, nor was she a familiar face from the village. Anna stood to greet her but halted at the weird sight before her. Miss Baxter had turned her chair, but her smile had faded for a look of shock. The new guest, in turn, had stopped at the door frame to stare at the lady’s maid.

Miss Baxter stood suddenly, “Margret? What are you-?” She took a step closer. “Why are you here?”

Margret frowned. “Like I said, I’m here to see Tom.”

“ _Tom?_ ” Miss Baxter’s hand flew to her mouth. “You’re not here for Mr Branson, you want Mr Barrow.”

“ _Mr Barrow?_ ” Margret scoffed, still frowning. “I suppose he was always dramatic.” But Miss Baxter did not reply, instead walking swiftly out the door and up the stairs.

* * *

“They should be here by about one o’clock. Miss Marigold and Master Michael will go to the nursery of course but if Mrs Hughes could get a bedroom ready for Lord and Lady Hexam that would be appreciated.” Robert was sat on a sofa in the library, a cup of tea in his hand, Cora across from him. Mary and Tom both stood at the desk going over files that Thomas did not, nor tried to understand.

“Of course, M’lord.” He answered, his face pleasant as he quickly tried to find an appropriate room within his head. Perhaps her old room, and if not then the Princess Armada was likely the least dusty. “I will ask as soon as I see her.”

There was a knock at the door with Mrs Hughes herself walking in.

Lord Grantham gave a short laugh. “You have impeccable timing Mrs Hughes; we were just speaking of you.”

“A good coincidence, my Lord. I’m actually here for Mr Branson.” Tom raised his head and turned around. “There’s a guest downstairs asking for you.”

Tom frowned; his face etched into confusion. “I don’t remember any meetings.” He looked to Mary and Robert but they both denied any secret knowledge.

The housekeeper added, “It seems she’s asked for you by name sir.”

“Well I must know her from somewhere. What’s her name?”

“Margret Jackson, sir.”

Thomas, who has walked over to the tea station in the confusion, turned around sharply. “What?” His eyes had widened, and his face had paled somewhat.

“Barrow? Do you know this woman?” Asked Robert.

Thomas blinked a few times as he seemed to remember the situation he was in. “Yes, M’lord, I believe so - begging your pardon.” Robert made a hand gesture to show that his out of turn language was forgotten. The butler turned back to Mrs Hughes, “Who exactly did she ask for?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Mrs Hughes seemed a bit confused herself, “but Andrew said-”

Miss Baxter walked into the room, not bothering to knock on the door though she seemed to turn shy at the sudden interruption. “Apologies Your Lordship, Your Ladyship, but Mr Barrow,” She faced her friend, “the guest downstairs, she asked for ‘Tom’ but she’s looking for _you_.”

Thomas swallowed, a pause of breath just long enough for the rooms occupants to take in their butler. “Very well,” his voice was an out of character combination of shaky and frustrated. “Miss Baxter, would you please take Mrs Jackson into my pantry. I will see her once I am finished.”

Both Mrs Hughes and Miss Baxter seemed reluctant to take their leave, but in the end they both nodded and exited the room. The silence left was as deafening as it was awkward.

Finally, Thomas turned around. “I apologise for the disruption, your Lordship,”

“No harm done Barrow.” Robert gave what he believed to be a comforting look. To Thomas, it wasn’t working. “I suppose having a butler and a son-in-law sharing the same name was bound to cause trouble sooner or later. Though I must ask, _how_ do you know this woman?”

Thomas wondered briefly if he could get away with not answering, or at least not answering completely. _‘She’s a family member.’ ‘A woman from my past.’_ It wasn’t any use; his lies had always been found out in the end.

“She’s-” He started, grimacing, “she’s my sister, Milord.”

“Heavens,” Mary called in her usual snark, “one would think you would be happier to see her.”

“I haven’t seen her for a while, M’lady,” Thomas’s voice had gotten smaller.

Cora tutted at her daughter. “Leave him be Mary. Barrow, why don’t you go and see her now? We can handle the rest ourselves.”

“Thank you, your Ladyship, it’s most appreciated.” Thomas nodded his goodbye and slipped out the door, choosing to pretend to not notice the remaining occupants glancing at one another in amusement.

As he slipped through the staircase doorway he could hear the tell-tale callings of conversation. Perhaps he should have expected the flurry of chatter in the servants’ hall - he’d been the subject of the downstairs gossip more than once - but it irked him all the same.

“But how could you not recognise the name of your friend?” Mrs Patmore asked pointedly.

“I haven’t spoken to her in quite a few years,” Miss Baxter replied, “and she was Margret Barrow for most of the years we were close.”

“How come Mr Barrow never talks about having a sister?”

“Thank you Daisy, but I think we’ll leave the gossip there for now,” Thomas ordered once he walked into the hall. “I do suppose everyone has work that they can be getting on with?” The hall reluctantly scattered at the pseudo-order, though he had no doubt that it would take more than a few words to quell the interest in his personal life.

“Miss Baxter?” He lowered his voice once most of the others had left. “Could you please keep your knowledge on this situation to yourself?”

“I’m sorry, but she seemed to introduce herself whilst I was upstairs.” He nodded and made to go to his pantry, but she grasped his arm, not harshly but enough that he stopped. “Thomas, do be careful.”

Perhaps not long before he would have corrected her for her informality, but in the case at hand he smiled. She knew, he remembered, about Margret and his dad and how everything had gone so wrong. She knew almost everything that made him as a person, yet stood by him nonetheless. Still smiling he nodded to her and gently took his arm back. He stopped in front of his own closed door for a moment, schooling his features into a well-practiced servants’ blank, and walked inside.

Mrs Hughes was stood next to his desk with one of the most politely uncomfortable looks Thomas had ever seen on a fellow person. She looked at him as though she wasn’t sure if he would scream, cry, or leave. He wasn’t too sure either.

Margret was, remarkably, rather the same as his memories told her as. Her hair was still long, pinned into a stout bun that reminded him of their mother if not for their father’s black hair. She had lost the last remains of her childlike looks that she had when he left and had replaced them with the starts of wrinkles at her eyes and chin. Her nose was still a tad too big, having suited Thomas much better in time. Her dress was worn down and thin with a patch near the hem, her coat handing on the stand next to the door. It was their mothers coat.

“Thank you Mrs Hughes.” He said to her, an imploring look on his own face. She nodded to him, glanced to Margret, and left the room, closing the door once more. He allowed himself a brief second of relief before he finally took his seat behind the desk.

“Why are you here?” He asked. His voice was already tired.

“Some manners wouldn’t go amiss,” Margret replied unimpressed.

“Two decades of silence,” His voice hadn’t risen in volume but still came through stronger, “and you turn up with no warning. I think I’m entitled to some answers.”

Margret scoffed. “You could have come back at any point if you just stopped this stupid nonsen-”

“You know bloody well I can’t just stop-”

“Don’t you swear at me.”

“Just say why you’re here.” It came out as a shout, one that any still downstairs would certainly have heard. Thomas shut his eyes tightly and forced himself to breathe deeply - he started counting in his head. _One, two, three_

“I knew this was a mistake,” Margret quipped.

_Four, five, six_

“And for your information, I wouldn’t have come at all,”

_Seven, eight_

“Not if he didn’t want you there so much,”

His eyes sprang open. “Who?”

Margret seemed to deflate somewhat, though the frustration in her eyes still remained. When she spoke now, her voice was suddenly quiet. “Samuel,”

Images reared through Thomas’s head. A small boy with short black hair - laughing, kicking a football, pushing him on the swing.

_“Higher Tommy, higher!”_

He suddenly felt quite lightheaded. “What _about_ Samuel?”

“He’s ill,” Margaret’s voice was still quiet, her eyes focussed on her lap. Thomas stayed silent so she continued. “Measles,”

“Will he…” The rest never followed.

Margaret finished the thought on her own. She shook her head. ”End of the week at most, the doctors said. He’s got pneumonia now…they can’t fix it.”

Thomas’s voice refused to work; the words seemed to clog his throat. Margaret continued nonetheless. “They’ve told him now, and he wants to see everyone before he goes.” She finally looked back up at her brother. “Including you. Dad tried to talk him out of it but…either way I said I’d get you.”

“Is Lizzy happy about this?” He asked after a moment, but Margaret didn’t answer. He looked over. Her eyes were screwed shut and her head bowed. Thomas’s stomach lurched.

“I don’t-” A sudden sob escaped her.

 _‘She’s overwhelmed. Our brother is dying, of course she’s overwhelmed.’_ He couldn’t believe his own thoughts.

“Lizzy’s dead.” She finally said.

Thomas suddenly felt numb, like the brief second between being his hand shot and feeling the pain. He took a deep breath. He didn’t bother counting. “Measles?”

He half expected Margaret to not answer but slowly she shook her head. She croaked out, “Spanish flu.”

The numbness vanished. _Spanish flu_. The Spanish flu that took Miss Swire and tied her Ladyship to her bed for days. That had been when Miss O’Brien still lived there, when Lady Sybil and Mr Crawley still lived at all.

“Ten years?” It hadn’t been, not quite, but exact dates suddenly seemed to hold less meaning. “You mean to say that my sister has been dead for ten years without a word?”

“You were _gone._ ” Margaret’s anger flooded over her grief.

“Not by choice!” He bit back. “I would have come; she was _my_ sister too!” His head throbbed. He wanted to scream or cry or do anything at all, but nothing seemed right.

In the end he just stood up and mumbled, “I need a cigarette.” He walked out the door and straight to the courtyard, desperately ignoring the queering glances from the other servants. Shaking fingers brought his cigarette and lighter to his lips and he quickly drew the warm smoke into his lungs, another breath following before all the old smoke had left. He had gotten through half of it when the door opened. Briefly he wondered if Margaret had come, but Miss Baxter sat down next to him.

She tutted. “I thought you were quitting.”

He was. He had been. Instead he found himself saying, “Elizabeth’s dead.” He watched her face for any sign of knowledge, of her withholding the truth as well, but her mouth parted in shock. No one had told her either. He realised he wasn’t supposed to feel satisfied at the fact, but he did anyway.

“When?”

“Spanish flu.” He reckoned it was more of a ‘how’ than a ‘when’, but the point got across.

To her credit, Baxter didn’t point out the obvious gap between the dates, rather slid closer to him on the crate-turned-chair and placed a hand on his leg. “I’m so sorry Thomas.” Sorry for his sister dying or sorry no one told him? He guessed it didn’t matter much. Miss O’Brien had described how horrid the disease had been on her Ladyship, he couldn’t imagine his little sister dying that way. 1919 – she would have been eighteen if that.

Time slowed somewhat but it was still too quick that Anna collected Miss Baxter for her Ladyship. The other lady’s maid glanced at him momentarily but left at his insistent look. He finished his third cigarette before he walked back in and quickly sought out Mrs Hughes.

“Do you think,” he asked, “that you could ask Mr Carson if he would be able to take over for a week or so?”

“I don’t see why not, but I wish I knew why,” She stated, a curious look on her face.

“My brother has been taken ill, I’ll be returning to Manchester to see him and will stay to sort out the affairs.” He avoided her gaze, his words muttered just loud enough for her to hear but not be overheard by any eavesdropping staff.

A hand rested on his arm. “I am sorry. Is he...is he likely to recover?” He didn’t respond, but it worked as a reply in itself. “Mr Barrow...”

“The funeral will likely be next week, and I’ll come home afterwards.” He looked up at her. His face was pinched. “I’ll likely send a telegram to Miss Baxter when Samuel...” He took a quick breath, “when he passes. She was a close family friend in our youth, I imagine she’d be very welcome to the funeral.”

Mrs Hughes led him into the Servants’ Hall and sat him down. The few staff occupying it quickly made themselves scarce, leaving the two alone. “Breathe Thomas,” She soothed him. Briefly he was reminded of the horrible time all those years ago with Jimmy, where he had sobbed his heart out in her sitting room.

“Tell me about him?” She implored.

He gave her a small smile, “He’s four years younger than me, closer age than me and Margret so we always got on,”

And he continued, telling tales of his childhood, running in the garden and his siblings cheering him on at the school cricket match. He left out certain memories of course, Mrs Hughes didn’t need to know how he stole food from his classmates so that they would eat that night, nor how he would tell Samuel stories in their bed to drown out the sounds of their father’s drunken raving downstairs. By the time the bell rang in the library he was in a much better shape overall. Rather he had almost pushed it all out of his mind until he spotted Margret sat in the servants’ hall come dinner time. She had placed herself next to Mrs Hughes, the elder woman acting as a buffer of sorts between the siblings.

Margret pointedly remained seated as everyone else stood at his arrival, which turned more than a few heads, but he decided to ignore her all together if able.

“I will be leaving for a week or so,” He started as they all sat, “Mr Carson will be taking over for the duration of my absence. Andy, if you could take over the jobs that he finds...” He glanced over to the housekeeper momentarily, “difficult then it would be appreciated.”

“When will you leave?” Anna asked.

“I will see to Lord and Lady Hexam’s arrival and will leave after,”

Gertie piped up, “Where’re you going?”

“Manchester.” His comment was more clipped.

“But why?” Daisy questioned.

Thomas sighed, albeit a tad dramatically. “Because I am _from_ Manchester. Is there any particular reason that I am being interrogated?”

The discussion was rather shut down at that point. Other topics floated around, the main contender being Daisy and Andy’s wedding the next month - they were getting the banns read the Sunday after next and both could hardly be any happier. The female staff were collectively forming a plan to make Daisy’s day dress more bridal - Miss Baxter had an idea regarding some spare lace - whilst Andy simply sat and made cow eyes towards his betrothed. Thomas found himself genuinely happy for the couple; the part of him that had been jealous of others’ ability to freely love another having dwindled over the years (briefly William and his deathbed wedding came to mind - perhaps second time would be the charm for Daisy). He supposed part of it was a result of him actually growing up, long overdue or not. The other part, however, he was gladly willing to attach to the presence of a certain Royal Valet in his own life.

The rest of the day seemed to be a queer combination of fast and slow. The upstairs tea over in a blink, the conversation with Miss Baxter dragging for days. She cried when he told her of Samuel, he did not ( _he did_ ). By the time everyone else had gone to bed it had struck half eleven, Margret having returned to her room at the Grantham Arms almost two hours prior. Thomas leant back in his chair for a moment before pulling out a sheet of paper and his pen.

_Dearest Richard,_

_I write to you not in good spirits, though not due to anything regarding yourself. Rather you are the light of a day marked down by tragedy and sorrow and for that I thank you._

_I have just received word that my brother has fallen ill and, as such, I am to return to my hometown at once to see him off. Today was the first time I had seen my own sister in nineteen years. It was the closest I have ever been to seeing a ghost. She looks so much like our mother, wearing her coat and all. I haven’t felt like this since Edw_

He crossed through the last sentence furiously until the unspoken name was no longer legible.

_Sorry about the rambles. Regardless I will not be contactable for a week or so. I will write upon my return._

_Forever yours,_

_T_


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas was not, and had rather never been, a fan of train journeys. His first, twenty years gone by then, had not been his choice rather than one of necessity. Each one taken whilst at Downton became long and humid (for Heaven forbid that the family ever travel on a day that was not warm, at least) periods of his life he could never get back. The return to Manchester proved to not to break the cycle; two changes: one at York and one in Leeds, carriages far too crowded for a Thursday afternoon, and a drizzly atmosphere to match his demeanour all led to an almost three-hour monstrosity. For brief pockets of time he could close his eyes and imagine that he was on a rare day off and taking the journey to London to see Richard once more. Their letters had only managed to translate to one blissful meetup in the last ten months (Richard had a saved half day that Thomas had managed to coincide with his first not-booted-out-of-his-job day off back in the second week of January), but the butler found Mr Ellis on his mind almost every day. He had refrained from telling anyone – though he wouldn’t be too surprised if Miss Baxter had somehow figured it all out on her own, perhaps in another life she could have been one of the new policewomen popping up in cities. Each instance of opening his eyes brought him back to reality though, his sister’s pensive expression a rude awakening.

No one awaited them at Manchester Central, but he had expected nothing less. With the hospital having closed for visiting hours, they instead began the walk towards their childhood home.

( _“Dad has said that you can stay until the funeral,”_ Margaret had told him that morning, _“but you must leave that day as well.”_ He _had_ expected less, to be honest, so there was no reason to kick up any fuss.)

It was remarkable how much of the town he could recall, how little it had all changed over the years. The church had the same cracks, the pub the same patrons. He could feel the eyes of the drunken men on him as the siblings walked past and desperately prayed to anyone ( _if_ anyone) above that their memories would stay fuzzy, his memory drowned in the cheap beer. He’d seen the wrong ends of too many men in the town when he was small; he wasn’t sure he could survive a second coming.

The house was the same. He wasn’t sure why it surprised him, yet it still did. Still as foreboding, still as silent (they hadn’t played in the house, not after Mother died, always escaped elsewhere - fun in the Barrow house had died with Alice Barrow). Margret walked inside without a single care; Thomas wished that he could. When he finally managed to cross the threshold, his father stood in the hall, a hand on the banister and his body guarding any further way through.

(For as long as he could understand the words, Thomas had been told how much he looked like his father. Many jokes had been made that Thomas Barrow Senior has not only given his name to his firstborn son, but also his own looks. With a certain place in Barrow and Sons’ Watches and Fineries, it was inconceivable that anything would disrupt the easy life set before the young boy. Inconceivable, until it happened, of course.)

His father stared at him as if judging if the man before him was real at all. Vaguely Thomas could smell the remains of alcohol on the elder man’s clothing; fresh or new, he wasn’t sure. Eventually his father relented his existence with a huff and stormed up the stairs. From the kitchen Margret glanced between them, sighing. Thomas took in a breath and followed upstairs to drop off his suitcase. The bedrooms were set out the same as they ever had been before. The three rooms; his father’s (not mother’s), his sister’s (not sisters’) and Samuel’s (not theirs) all lay silent, void of those that previously lived there. Quickly he spared a glance towards where Margret and Elizabeth had slept when young, books and toys strewn about the floor in a way their mother would forever try to correct. Only beds remained, the other single replaced with a double, and two persons’ belongings to boot. The single, pushed over, held a blanket and soft toy that Thomas did not recognise.

He was no further into his thoughts when he was suddenly pushed against the wall, his suitcase dropping with a curt gasp. ( _“Now, you listen, you filthy little rat.”_ ) Thomas Barrow Sr grasped the lapels of his son’s suit with a tight grip only doubled in his face.

“You leave the devil at the door boy,” He hissed. The scent of whisky struck the younger man as much as the words. “I will not have your sins in my house.”

He didn’t wait for his son to reply, instead simply dropping his hold and heading back to the stairs.

He didn’t turn back as he added, “You sleep on the sofa.”

* * *

The hospital was bigger than Downton’s, as was to be expected with a city versus a hospital. The vague smell of Carrel-Dakin Fluid assaulted him with memories thought buried, limbs and lives long gone by that point. He’d only stepped foot in a hospital once since the war and frankly the experience wasn’t one he wished to repeat. But Samuel had asked for him, on his _deathbed_ nonetheless, and he would be dammed if he missed another chance to say goodbye to a sibling.

Margaret and their father walked ahead of him at a distance they had deemed comfortable enough, weaving through the various hallways and wards at a pace committed to memory. It was only as they slowed that Thomas allowed himself to take in the surroundings of the various men lying on the cots, their blankets drawn up by wives and children. His own family did not stop at any of the visible beds, rather they continued to the end of the room where three screens cornered off a single man. Samuel lay there with a pained grimace as a nurse sponged his forehead with water. He was pale, too much for a Barrow, with his hair stuck down to the skin. Margaret took the singular chair next to his bed and clasped his hand, Thomas Senior stood next to her. His namesake hung back by the gap in the screens with wide eyes as he tried to connect the images of a hollering boy with a man wasting away.

Samuel’s gaze flickered to each of those around him before landing on his brother. A shaking hand raised barely above the sheets as a strained voice called out, “Tom.”

Convincing himself to ignore the glances between the other two family members, Thomas made his way to the other side of the bed. “Hello Samuel,”

His father turned abruptly towards the exit of their ‘room’, curtly motioning for his sister to follow. Margaret seemed hesitant to leave but, unwilling to disobey him, followed the elder man out the gap. Thomas watched the gap himself as he listened to his sister’s heels draw further away.

“They never told me.” Samuel brought him back. He had turned his head so that he would watch Thomas himself. He continued, “Never said why you were gone, simply that you were. That we were to forget you, but I never did.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Never would have minded,” Samuel added, his voice closer to a whisper. “Not from you, not my brother,” The words tumbled into a fit of coughs, mucus flying onto his hands and bed-sheets. Thomas poured a cup of water from the bedside table as he willed his feelings back. Briefly he was back in the shoes of Lance Sergeant Barrow, holding the patient’s cup steady as his brother cleared his throat and wiping away the mess made with his handkerchief.

He managed to reply, “Don’t worry about that, any of it. Not now Sam.” _‘Don’t think of my sins on your way beyond. Let there be something after this, somewhere you can go.’_

“I wish-” Coughs suddenly struck him again, somewhere deeper that time. His lungs gave desperate barks as mucus and blood sprayed out. A nurse rushed in, taking the space his own family had departed, and rubbed his back as Thomas grasped his hand so tight he worried he may break it. After a minute Samuel managed to gain his control back and lay still as the nurse cleaned his face. Thomas wiped the droplets from his own, wishing he could forget the smeared blood on the fabric. The nurse gave him a sad smile as she left.

Samuel took a few wheezing breathes as he still attempted to breathe through. Out of the back of his hearing he managed to clock Margret’s returning footsteps. Samuel finished, “I wish I knew you.”

Margaret and Thomas Senior walked back into the screens; their attention locked firmly onto the bed. Thomas younger grasped tighter onto Sam’s hand, even as his sister took the other, and tried not to choke on the silence left.


	3. Chapter 3

Samuel wasn’t awake the next day. He lay so still that if not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, Thomas would have thought he had already died. A periodic wheeze or cough interrupted the silence, else the three surrounded the hospital bed from all sides as they awaited death. Thomas had never been good at dealing with death; he hadn’t taken his mother’s death well, nor Lieutenant Courtenay’s, nor Lady Sybil’s. One may have thought by the point in his life he’d reached that he would have found ways to handle such inevitabilities but to no success.

Hours dragged on in silence with no progress. As visiting hours drew to a close the family departed the same as arrived.

On the walk home Thomas, who had already found himself several paces behind his father and sister, found himself slowing further at the sight of the local church. As large and imposing as it had been when he was a boy, the night sky only made the steeple look taller as if descended from Heaven itself.

“I’m going for a walk, I will be back later,” He called. Besides a quick glance back from Margret, his announcement drew little attention.

He gazed upon the structure as he walked towards its entrance. Flashes of memories appeared of Alice Barrow holding the hands of her children as they walked in each Sunday, each child cleaned and combed and dressed in their best as if the night before had not filled the house with crashes and yells, as though the elder siblings had not calmed down their younger counterparts well into the morning.

He carried on forward, the stones of the cemetery starring back at him in the evening light. More graves had been added since he last walked the route but the placement his destination remained the same. The headstone he remembered had been changed:

_ Alice Barrow _

_ Born 14 August 1870 _

_ Died 3 April 1905 _

_ Also _

_ Elizabeth Barrow _

_ Born 28 November 1900 _

_ Died 16 January 1919 _

_ Beloved Mother and Daughter _

They would have to get a new gravestone, he supposed, once they buried Sam. Why was  _that_ his first thought upon seeing the resting place for a third of his family? It seemed like something ‘Old Thomas’ would say, something Mrs Hughes would tut back a withered  ‘Thank you Thomas’ to.

Slowly he rested upon his knees, unconcerned to the soil surly dirtying his trousers. 

“Heavenly Father, if you are there,” He paused, closing his eyes, “if I have ever been within you, if I have ever been one of your children, I ask that you let my brother go as quickly and as painlessly as is possible. I know that I may not ask for him to live, simply that he may pass in a way that brings no more pain to him.” He felt his face tighten in the way it always did when he cried and swallowed the lump blocking his throat.

“I’m sorry Sam. I’m sorry Liz, I’m sorry Mum. I wish-“ His throat caught, cracking his words. “I wish I could of-“ His hand wiped furiously across his face.

After another moments pause, he slowly stood again and placed a hand on the stone. “I’m sorry.”

The lights were on in the front room and the air stilled as he walked through the door. His father sat in his chair, his sister on the sofa. Her husband Harold Jackson, whom Thomas has been introduced to on one tense morning, had his hand on her shoulder. Their daughter, a meek thing of - at most - ten, was held close to her mother’s chest. Thomas did not know her name, he had not been left within her company beyond shared meals.

In a dining room chair across from them sat a nurse from the hospital.

Thomas breathed in, then out. He wasn’t sure if his prayer had been answered or not.

* * *

Andy’s eyebrows raised slightly as the sight of the telegram boy, a rare occurrence those days. Anything the family needed to be hastily aware of was sent by telephone and almost nothing was too urgent in a servants’ life that a telegram was warranted.

“Hullo,” The boy welcomed as he thrust out the message, “it’s for a P. Baxter.”

Well, if anyone was to get a message in such a way perhaps Miss Baxter made the most sense. He thanked the boy and headed back inside to breakfast. Miss Baxter remained, finishing her tea and waiting for her Ladyship to ring.

“A telegram for you, Miss Baxter.” He passed it, thoroughly surprised when her face turned ashen. To add to the situation, Mrs Hughes looked at her as though she would break before their eyes.

“I- Excuse me, please,” She stuttered out before quickly leaving the servants hall. Mrs Hughes followed behind her, both of their heels echoing into the courtyard. Andy watched as Mr Carson looked helplessly in the direction of his wife, his face mirroring the confusion of every other person at the table. Unconsciously his eyes read the discarded telegram.

POST OFFICE TELEGRAM

1007 ARDWICK POST OFFICE

P. BAXTER DOWNTON ABBEY DOWNTON YORKSHIRE YO5 1LD

SAM DIED SAT EVE STOP FUNEREAL TUESDAY AT 11 STOP GO BACK SAME DAY STOP T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to add that I actually worked out a rough idea of where Thomas lives in this story, along with the corresponding train station and hospital that they would use. In 1928 the station that you would arrive at from York is Manchester Piccadilly, and I chose the Manchester Royal Infirmary since I could confirm that it was still around then. From there I decided on Ardwick as Thomas’s home since it was close to both the station and hospital (walking distance) and had a main road that a clock shop would do well in, but still remained a poor area since Thomas is working class. The church that I was imagining was St. Thomas Church (not because of the name, though it probably would have thrilled young Thomas Barrow) because of the overarching tower that can look rather intimidating (even if the building looks terrible - there, I said it). I have no idea on history regarding individual post offices, I actually tried to find a post office that was around at the time but google wasn’t helping, so I just went with a generic name.  
> If you’re wondering “Wow, that’s a lot of research for a couple paragraphs in a fanfiction” then yes, I’m aware. You should have seen the amount of PTSD research I did for Sins of Love.


	4. Chapter 4

When Phyllis finally saw Thomas, the change was remarkable. Where he had left Downtown despondent but still together as a person, he now stood almost a husk of the man she knew. His hair had fallen out of its pomade shell into his face; his suit disheveled in a way that the butler would never let his livery become back at the abbey. His eyes bore rings far beyond that of the under-a-week time he’d been gone. Frighteningly, she realised, he looked far too close to when she had last seen him before he had entered the bathroom without the intention of leaving. She dashed out of the third class carriage of her train and wrapped her arms around him. Thomas startled for a moment before sinking into her embrace. Phyllis tried not to think about when he might have last been held like that.

The silence between them was deafening as they began to make their way toward the church. Phyllis wished she could find something to say, anything that may have comforted him but her head remained in the same clouded fog that had shrouded her the moment she had read his telegram. To her Samuel remained the small boy clutching her skirts when she had left in 1906. His shiny black hair and blue eyes had stuck in her mind as she boarded the train for her first service job. It had also been the last time she had seen Thomas until he thrust her current job onto her. He’d barely left school, off to start his apprenticeship with Mr Barrow. Two years later he was gone. Margret had refused to answer any of her questions beyond a vague proclamation of the boy’s ‘crimes of sin’. She’d found out the whole story eventually, of course, not that it changed her view on the boy. Thomas was sweet and kind, if snappish and hard-hearted by life, and no inversion would twist her care for him. Her finding out had been the start of the end of her friendship with Margret, only truly buried by her conviction. Now would be the first time seeing the whole Barrow family, what remained at the very least.

A few people turned as they arrived at the funeral. She tried not to wince at the widening eyes and pursing lips as they were recognised. She recognised almost everyone stood there: the Barrows; neighbours; old classmates; churchgoers; customers. If her own parents were alive she would have stood with them and clutched her mum’s hand. If she were not but a thief in their eyes she may have stood with Thomas’s father and sister. Instead she stood by Thomas. She could not hold his hand nor place her arm around him, like Harold did Margret, but she could remind him that he was not alone in the crowd. She hoped it would be enough.

* * *

“Mr Barrow, are you quite alright?”

Thomas looked up from his newspaper. Absentmindedly he realised that he had been on page 12 for far longer than one would ever need to read it. True enough he doubted he could recite a single word from the article if his life depended on it. He folded the paper with a sigh. “Yes, Miss Baxter, I am,”

Phyllis pursed her lips the same way she had when his younger self told her that he had simply fallen against the door again or ran into another wall. “You are allowed to be sad over this, Mr Barrow,”

Thomas glanced back at the newspaper. “I know that,”

“You are also allowed to grieve.”

_‘I know that.’_ He tried to say but the words lodged in his throat. He blinked furiously as his eyes welled up, a cough escaping his tired lungs. He pulled out a cigarette in lieu of an answer. Miss Baxter pursed her lips once more but remained silent.

The conversation scarcely resumed during the train journeys that day, simple tidbits about the abbey or the lack of change in their childhood abodes but neither was truly invested. Mid-afternoon had rolled on by the time they pulled into Downton Station and the sky had settled into an apt dreary overcast. Their walk back up to the house stiles what little talk was between them, the silence brewing too prickled to be comfortable yet not unwelcoming enough to break. She tried to give him a smile as he held the servants’ door open for her but her muscles refused to cooperate.

“Mr Barrow!” Andy called as he exited the kitchens, a blissfully unaware smile on his face, “Welcome back. How was your trip?”

“It was fine, Andy,” Thomas gave him a quick nod but did not stop. Phyllis watched as he climbed the stairs, his shoulders slumped from the weight of his thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

To the untrained eye, Elsie supposed that it could seem that all was well downstairs. Mr Carson and Mr Barrow had swapped places once more without much fuss and the next week had continued on. If Mr Barrow was any more melancholy than he had been prior to his absence then no one made a comment beyond herself and Miss Baxter giving one another concerned looks at certain points. The house ran smoothly regardless – she supposed that Thomas must have told the family the reason for his trip but, as far as they were concerned or aware, he seemed rather normal. A tad despondent perhaps, but the man _had_ lost a brother.

The only times that the façade seemed to slip was in the evenings once all others had retired to their homes and beds. Sometimes it was a soft sound alike a sob that snuck through the walls, other times it was a too weary face looking back at her if she popped in for a chat.

She wasn’t quite certain what words would help him, she only hoped that she would find them soon.

* * *

On the tenth day since his return Thomas made himself known once more through an almighty coughing fit. Mrs Hughes had been in the middle of a discussion with Anna when it occurred, the sound reverberating around the downstairs. Within a few seconds it had stopped leaving an almost eerie silence in its wake. She rose from the table and made her way to his pantry, knocking before she entered. The look Thomas gave her was almost one of boyish surprise, as if he’d been caught taking a bottle of wine once more.

“Mrs- Mrs Hughes, what can I do for you?” He asked, stumbling slightly as he dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief.

She took a step towards him. “Are you quite alright Mr Barrow?”

“Of course.” He glanced between her and some other place nearby in the same way he would when caught in a fib when younger. Elsie almost smiled.

She quickly took the man before her in, noting his pale skin yet damp hair. The pen in his free hand shook ever so slightly. This time she did smile, though sadly as she remembered how Charlie looked sat in the same place at the beginning of the Spanish Flu.

“Mr Barrow,” She said with little place for argument, “you are not well.”

“I appreciate your concern Mrs Hughes but I’m quite al-“ His sentence was broken by another cough, so forceful that his body was jerked forwards in such a way that she found herself flinching. Once finished Thomas slumped against his chair breathing heavily, his face tired once more as he looked to her.

“That’s quite enough now, let’s get you to bed this instant where you can rest.” She dashed towards him and helped him up before he could try to change her mind. Once he was (unsteadily) stood she placed a hand gently on his arm so he would look at her, “Perhaps some rest would do you good.” They both smiled sadly to each other for a moment before she finally managed to help him to his bedroom.

* * *

The morn came without much to say. The family had been surprised, but perhaps not too much, that Barrow had been unable to supervise dinner, but Andy had done a fine job for something so last minute. Briefly Elsie had been surprised that Mr Barrow had not been in his pantry before she came down but if there was a day for him to have a lie in then that day might as well have been then. She had actually forgotten his absence until Daisy had come in with the first pot of tea.

“Is Mr Barrow not down yet?” She asked.

Elsie bristled slightly at the Deja-vu of the situation and looked up to see that, indeed, the head of the table was empty. She looked down the table but each other servant looked as surprised as her.

Albert bit his lip lightly before facing the housekeeper. “Mr Barrow were coughing an awful lot last night.” He glanced to Andy who nodded with a slight frown.

“Mr Barrow was taken unwell yesterday, I had hoped that he may have shaken it in the night. Andy,” The man sat straight, “would you mind checking in on him, perhaps he simply overslept.” Andy nodded and made haste to the attics.

The hall was left rather stilted in the footman’s wake. After a minute of silence Anna piped up, “Mr Barrow isn’t often unwell.”

“Everyone is at one point or another. “ Miss Baxter added on with a soft urgency, which sent them all back into the daunting quiet.

All too soon footsteps began to echo on the stairs, but much too quickly. They weren’t of someone carrying simple news – they were far too rushed and panicked. Mrs Hughes rose before anyone else could, ushering them back down when some made to follow her. She managed to meet Andrew at the foot of the staircase. He too was far too pale.

“Mrs Hughes,” He puffed out as he tried to catch his breath, “call the doctor.”


End file.
